“I told you so,” cried Mary triumphantly.
“But in what sense serious?” Mr. Scogan asked.
“I mean as an occupation. One can go on with it without ever getting bored.”
“I see,” said Mr. Scogan. “Perfectly.”
“One can occupy oneself with it,” Ivor continued, “always and everywhere. Women are always wonderfully the same. Shapes vary a little, that’s all. In Spain”—with his free hand he described a series of ample curves—“one can’t pass them on the stairs. In England”—he put the tip of his forefinger against the tip of his thumb and, lowering his hand, drew out this circle into an imaginary cylinder—“In England they’re tubular. But their sentiments are always the same. At least, I’ve always found it so.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Scogan.
CHAPTER XVI.
The ladies had left the room and the port was circulating. Mr. Scogan filled his glass, passed on the decanter, and, leaning back in his chair, looked about him for a moment in silence. The conversation rippled idly round him, but he disregarded it; he was smiling at some private joke. Gombauld noticed his smile.